Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  “You’re welcome.”

  When the phone rang, Jack released his grip. “That might be your call.” She flexed her tingling fingers.

  He rubbed his palm. “See you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Nine

  Exhausted and probably a little jet lagged, Abby propped up her pillows before settling into them. The devastating past few weeks had ripped Abby Corey’s heart to shreds and literally destroyed her world. Her business had been torched. Her home had been gutted. And her dear, sweet friend had perished in the fire.

  Since that fateful night, Abby had battled the agonizing pain and put up a damned good fight. But as the hours had turned into days and the days turned into weeks. Abby realized she might have won the battle, but she was definitely losing the war. An ache had settled deep in her chest like a powerful magnet that was drawing every ounce of life from her blood. Regardless of how hard she had tried, Abby could not come to terms with all she had lost. Her memories had rolled and ebbed like the tide, until she suddenly felt them stagnate in the bottomless pool of dread that had replaced her soul. Should she die tomorrow, Abby wasn’t sure that would be the worst that could happen to her. She pulled the fluffy down comforter under her chin.

  Despite all that, or maybe because if it, right now, more than anything, Abby needed to feel connected to something … someone. Although she shouldn’t have, for some reason Abby trusted the way the lawyer distracted her from the empty grave she recently called her life. Realistically, of course, she knew that she didn’t know Jack Hawthorn from Jack the Ripper. Besides, a five-year-old wouldn’t believe the story he’d told her about the necklace she inherited. Not to mention the fact that her judgment had been clouded by sorrow so deep it made her bones bleed. Now, she decided, was not the time to make decisions about distractions in general, men in particular and that elusive void she was beginning to call her existence.

  And that’s when Abby smelled it. Impossible. She closed her eyes and inhaled. That was the fragrance Kat had created. No way. Abby shook her head and willed away the all-too-familiar scent. But the recognizable bouquet refused to budge. Instead, it lingered around her. Teasing. Taunting. Maybe it was something that just smelled like Kat’s cologne. Opening her eyes, she felt like a fool. After all, Boston had to be full of fresh, innovative scents. Surely there could be at least one that smelled similar. Besides, how could Abby even trust her own judgment right now? The stress she’d suffered since the fire had been unbearable. She’d lost her home and her business, but most of all she’d lost her best friend.

  Abby inhaled again very slowly this time. No, dammit, that was Kat’s scent. Abby would know it anywhere. Who could forget the delicate blend of flower essences, exotic grasses, rare wine resins and essential oils from France, Italy, and Egypt?

  Kat had had such a talent for combining fragrances. The scent her friend created had been in a league of its own, and that’s exactly why Abby had convinced her to name it Extraordinary. Because, just like Kat, nothing could compare.

  Abby refused the tears welling up in her eyes as she willed away the past. For now, she had to exorcise the good memories along with the bad. Maybe someday it wouldn’t have to be that way, but for now they all had to go.

  Abby smelled it again. This is simply not possible. You’re halfway across the country. She sniffed. It was not only possible, her mind conceded, it was, in fact, Extraordinary. Abby gasped, then held her breath. At least, if she didn’t breathe, she couldn’t be affected by it. Didn’t have to think or feel or hurt. Her lungs began to burn, but she refused to take a breath.

  When she could stand it no longer, Abby let out a huge exhale. “Dammit, Kat, is that you?”

  Abby felt foolish. Smelling Kat’s cologne was bad enough. But talking out loud to her dead friend — Jesus H. Christ, she had finally lost it — big time. And then the fragrance grew stronger. Abby’s gut twisted. “Okay. Let’s just say you’re here,” she said. A pressure built up in her chest, mimicking what it felt like when they piled stones on people to kill them. And that’s when the tears began to fall, scalding both her cheeks.

  “I’m so sorry, Kat,” she whispered, tossing off the covers and coming to her knees in the middle of the bed. “I am so very sorry you were in my apartment. If I could have changed places with you that night I would have.” She clasped her hands together as if in prayer and closed her eyes. “If I could change places with you right now, I would. I swear I would. It should have been me who died, not you.”

  As the fragrance faded, Abby gradually regained her composure and her eyes fluttered open. Flipping out, she reasoned, probably wasn’t that unreasonable. In fact, it was a freakin’ miracle she had held it together as long as she had. She took a calming breath and sat down, bracing herself with both arms. Regardless, falling apart wasn’t Abby’s style, and she knew it. She was a pulled-together woman, who could weather even the harshest tragedy, which obviously this had been, and she wasn’t about to lose it now. Besides, Kat would have kicked her butt fifty ways for Sunday for not bucking up. Abby swiped both cheeks and rolled her shoulders. Maybe a good night’s sleep was all she needed. Well, that and one helluva stiff drink. And, since there was no liquor in her hotel room, she’d have to settle for sleep … when all she wanted was answers.

  What really happened that night? Why did some son-of-a-bitch break into her apartment and brutalize Kat? Why did the bastard torch her shop and her home afterwards? Too exhausted to bear the weight of these questions, much less their answers, she turned out the light. Pulling the soft comforter under her chin, Abby closed her eyes. She’d had enough unanswered questions for one night. Hell, she’d had more than enough for a lifetime.

  Chapter Ten

  “She’s the one!”

  The dark-haired beauty pointed a finger at the woman seated across the room and remained quiet while chaos broke out around her.

  “Are you absolutely certain?” The deep voice of the man behind the podium could barely be heard above the crowd, but his penetrating stare commanded the woman’s attention.

  Her face flushed, matching the red bodice of her otherwise unadorned black dress. Long dark curls bobbed up and down, escaping the confines of her loosely-tied bonnet as she nodded. Slowly standing, her pale blue eyes pinned the accused and everyone in the room grew deathly still. Her cheeks hollowed as she hissed her accusation, “She’s a witch!”

  The meeting room went wild. All eyes focused on the beautiful red-haired woman being held in her seat by a grim looking guard. Despite his efforts, the accused jumped to her feet in horror.

  The candles reflected the panic in her emerald eyes and highlighted the deep copper colored hair cascading around her shoulders like a shawl.

  “I’m not a witch,” Abby shouted, trying desperately to be heard above the din. “What are you saying? Are you crazy?”

  The guard’s firm grip on her arm brought her soundly back into the chair.

  Wooden floor planks vibrated beneath her feet as the mob stamped in unison. The people shouted, and the dank musty air hung heavy with intensity. Men cursed, raising balled fists in anger, while women fainted.

  “Stop this,” Abby cried. “There’s been a mistake. I’ve never seen that woman before in my life … ”

  She heard her words dwindle away in the madness. Licking her lips, she tried desperately to wash away the fear and keep her wits.

  Huge wooden shutters blocked the windows, making the room so dark she could barely see. Where was the door? She couldn’t remember. There had to be a way out! Her eyes darted frantically. Tears scalded her cheeks, but she refused to lose control. She knew if she did, all was lost.

  “Witch! Witch! Witch!” The chant surrounded her.

  Abby heard what sounded like the pounding of a gavel trying to restore order. Or, was it the pounding of her heart?

  “Hang her by the neck,” one man
shouted. A cheer rose from the mob.

  “Burn her at the stake,” her accuser screeched in a shrill voice filled with insanity. “The flames will match the fiery crown of hair Satan has already bestowed on her and prepare her for an eternity in hell!”

  Reaching a fevered pitch, they cried, “Send Satan his queen!”

  Shadowy figures cloaked in black moved closer. Their white collars floated around her like ghostly apparitions. Hands reached for her as the candlelight shimmered on their distorted faces. Fighting the terror rising within her, she wiped her clammy palms on her skirt. They were coming after her and Abby knew if she gave in to the urge to panic, it would be fatal.

  Someone on the floor grabbed the hem of her skirt. “Get her!” the faceless woman shrieked.

  They were too close. Abby’s mind reeled when she felt their hot breath. All she could do was back away.

  “What do you want from me?” she pleaded.

  Everything was happening so fast. “Don’t touch me!” she implored. Her only hope was escape.

  From somewhere in the darkness, steel-like fingers wrapped around her wrist like a shackle. Her arm felt nearly broken by the iron grip claiming her like a possession.

  She turned to face the tall man whose muscular body was clothed all in black. Leather boots encased his legs up to his thighs. His face was hidden in the shadows, but she could tell his hair was as dark as the cape hanging wildly about his broad shoulders.

  Was it the devil himself? Before Abby knew what was happening, he snatched her from the greedy mob as if it were child’s play. Somehow he found the door.

  Once they were safely outside, the moonlight at his back again made it impossible to see the face of this man who had just saved her life.

  He reached out and gently lifted her hand to his lips. She had never experienced such a sensation of relief as his mouth reassuringly touched her palm. His lips were soft and moist against her skin. She wanted to stay forever within this haven of safety.

  Then, like the crisp October breeze enveloping the shadows and chilling her to the bone, he was gone. She was alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Abby sat straight up in bed, gulping back the scream that threatened in her throat. Frantic and disoriented, her eyes searched for a point of recognition. Something, anything familiar that would cast out her nightmare. And that’s when she saw it.

  The soft glow from atop the chest of drawers grounded her back in the present. The soothing night-light reminded her she was at Hannah’s Inn in Salem. Its gentle radiance reminded that she’d just had a bad dream, nothing more. Her breathing slowed as she brushed the tears from her cheeks and snuggled back under the covers.

  She’d had nightmares all her life, and some had been unsettling, almost precognitive, but they had never been this realistic. She stretched both arms overhead and yawned. Suddenly, very relaxed and very sleepy, she watched the comforting light and thought only of the tall, dark stranger in her dream.

  • • •

  Abby’s lashes fluttered as her eyes adjusted to the brilliant sunshine. Even though she remembered her dream and knew it had been vivid, to say the least, it seemed more like a vague memory this morning. Funny what a little sleep and broad daylight could do for the psyche. Besides, who wouldn’t fantasize about an angry mob? For crying out loud, she was in Salem, Massachusetts.

  Anxious to see the New England countryside, she hopped out of bed and opened the window to invite in the crisp, fall breeze. The view was nothing short of magnificent. As far as she could see, the trees weren’t just red; they were crimson. Yellows were rich shades of gold and bursts of orange ranged from pumpkin to rust.

  A frosty gust sent Abby diving back under the cozy, down comforter. Snuggling beneath the bedclothes, she surrendered to the inn’s nostalgic aura and the majesty of the huge brick fireplace opposite her canopy bed. Daylight enabled her to distinguish the intricate birds and hearts carved in low relief along the mantel. Taking it all in, Abby sighed in appreciation. If it hadn’t been for Jack’s promise of breakfast and his offer to show her around Salem, she would have spent a very uncharacteristic morning right where she was.

  Instead, she shut the window, showered, then slipped into jeans and a comfy, cotton sweater the color of freshly ground cinnamon. As she rechecked her makeup and brushed her naturally curly, auburn hair, uninvited thoughts of Jack came to mind totally without Abby’s permission. Her hand stopped mid-stroke. Hawthorne was a stranger. Nothing more, nothing less. So, why on Earth did he feel so damned familiar?

  Abby banished the tall, dark image of the man she had dreamt about, swearing he did not resemble Jack Hawthorne. Besides, the man’s name was Jack for God’s sake. Remembering J.T. and Jacques, Abby realized she had done Jack twice before in her life, and both relationships had ended with less than stellar results. And even if the dream guy did remind her of Hawthorne, common sense insisted he was the only man she had met since arriving in Salem. It wasn’t any wonder a man fitting his description appeared in her dream.

  Refusing to fuss, Abby set down her brush and decided there was nothing to do but wait. Well there was that … and to listen to the clock tick. The steady beat challenged the silence and made it impossible for her to sit still. Recalling bits and pieces of Salem’s modern day folklore, she went to the window and looked out on the peaceful town below. Could what she’d heard be true? Did Salem really have a large group who still practiced witchcraft?

  Drawn to the small pine box, Abby stood in front of the chest of drawers and realized she had left the necklace out last night. But had she? She could have sworn she put it back in the box before getting into bed. That’s when she remembered the soothing night light that had comforted her back to sleep after her dream. So, where the hell was it?

  Except for her amulet and the box it came in, the dresser top was uncluttered. There was no light of any kind. No lamp. No bulb. No lantern. Not even an electrical outlet. Fortunately for Abby, broad daylight didn’t lie. That much she knew. However, nightmares, especially the vivid ones, could seem pretty darn real — even the next morning. That much she also understood. The only explanation was that the strange nightlight must have been part of her dream, too.

  Abby lifted the chain as though it were made of spun glass and dangled the stone. She had the same thought every time she looked at it. Exquisite. Moving to the mirror above the dresser, Abby held the amulet above the V-neck of her sweater. Against her smooth, tanned skin, the amber stone seemed to warm. Fascinated she watched as it pulse in the sunshine. Slow and steady. Like a heartbeat.

  Her brow wrinkled.

  Impossible. The sun wasn’t shining directly on the necklace. So, how on earth could the pendant catch the light? Well, she reasoned, that was a no brainer — it couldn’t. The odd glow must have been glinting off something inside or maybe a shiny object outside. She looked around the room — nothing. The same when she went to the window. Not one reflection as far as the eye could see. Again the soothing, pulsating stone drew her gaze. Confused, but not quite frightened, Abby shook her head.

  “Witches, nonexistent nightlights and phantom strangers be damned.” About mid-rant Abby’s stomach reminded her that she’d been jet lagged and exhausted last night and had forgotten to eat dinner. Suddenly famished, she checked the time again. Ten o’clock.

  Tag-teamed by relentless intuition and a niggling, unexplainable disappointment, Abby placed the necklace back in the box and started to put it in her suitcase, but before she could a gust of cold air stopped her mid step. The curtains fluttered. She blinked.

  “What the hell?”

  She checked the window. It was still shut and locked. But the curtains had moved. She had seen them. Hadn’t she? Of course she had. There must be a draft coming in from somewhere — that was the only logical explanation. And at least for now, that was good enough for her.

&n
bsp; Suddenly as anxious to get the hell out as she was unwilling to leave the necklace behind, Abby slipped the pine container into her purse. Shaking off the strange events of the morning, not to mention her dream, she shut the door behind her. Hawthorne or no Hawthorne, she was out of there.

  “My breakfast. His loss,” she muttered.

  A brisk walk to a quaint, sun porch cafe combined with coffee and a warm cinnamon roll did wonders for her disposition. No more unexplainable chills. No compulsions to pull out the amulet and look at it. No bizarre pulsing lights as far as the eye could see. Satisfied that she was surrounded by nature’s beauty — nothing more, nothing less — Abby relaxed.

  Funny, she thought, how impossibly familiar the surroundings seemed. Gold and rust colored mums lined garden paths separating the tables, while the last roses of summer dignified an old, brick privacy wall nearby. Just like that wonderful autumn picnic on her sixteenth birthday.

  The day had been beautiful, she recalled. So much like today. Turning leaves, an unseasonably warm breeze. Glorious sunshine. She would never forget receiving the riotous bouquet of burgundy mums — much like the ones in Hawthorne’s office.

  Abby stopped. Wait a minute. That wasn’t right. She’d spent her sixteenth birthday in the hospital. Not only had it stormed like something out of a horror movie, but she’d had an appendectomy. The picnic memory, she decided, must have been some other birthday. Although, try as she might, she still couldn’t remember which one.

  Turning her attention, Abby breathed in the sweet, soft scent of a nearby bed of petunias and understood why even the locals preferred to travel Salem on foot. Her eyelashes fluttered closed as she imagined the early Americans traipsing these same streets in their black and white pilgrimesque outfits.

  Abby could almost see Benjamin Hooper building the Hathaway House in 1682. Hadn’t that structure housed the first public bakery? And there was the Witch House. Hadn’t the magistrates held preliminary examinations of witnesses in the 1692 witch trials there? Yes, she remembered, because Magistrate Jonathan Corwin had been one of them.